Carina wouldn’t be here if not for me. Igor’s anger about not being able to use her the way he wanted to is misplaced.
I walk so I’m facing Carina, noticing her curious expression. Her basic lessons haven’t covered the exchange between me and Maksim; she’s wondering what was said.
“Throw your punches from the chin,” I say. “Let the rest of your body follow. Rotate your hips and shoulders, and then”—I watch Maksim step into the ring out of the corner of my eye—“move your hand back to protect your head.”
Carina has noticed Maksim hovering, too, but she does an admirable job of keeping her focus on me.
“I heard you were teaching your pet to fight,” my brother drawls. “Are you expecting an ambush?”
I ignore him, nodding at Carina to go ahead. Her first hit is flimsy, lacking the power I know she’s capable of. I use the momentum against her, stepping left when she follows through so I can flip her over my arm. Carina lands flat on the mat. She grunts from the impact before getting to her feet, face red from embarrassment and exertion.
I’m careful to keep any remorse off my face. A different opponent won’t take it easy on her; neither will I. I’ll be the villain as many times as it takes if it keeps her alive.
Carina stretches. Grimaces. “I never thought I’d say this, but can we practice shooting instead?”
I allow a small smile. “That was a good start.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’d hate to see what you consider a bad attempt. Falling on my own?”
Carina swings without warning. At full force this time. I grab her wrist and twist her arm so it’s behind her back, letting her go after a few seconds.
She’s scowling when she turns to face me again. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. It takes practice, like anything. I’ve spent more time training than you have playing violin. Try again.”
We grapple for another hour before I state, “Enough.”
Carina relaxes, visibly relieved. She’ll be sore tomorrow and have bruises, but she’s improved.
I avoid looking at my brother as I hand her a water bottle and a towel. He’s remained to rattle me, I know, and I wonder what he’ll report to Igor. But I’ve glimpsed some genuine curiosity on his face.
My family is furious about what I did. The more time passes, the more they’ll start to question why I did it. At some point, I’ll have to decide how much to share with them. Hearing how long I’ve known Carina will give away how much she means to me. But I’m not exactly hiding that fact, training her. I’m drawing attention because mistresses rely on the reputation of their protector and wives have a security detail. Women are not expected to protect themselves. If they need to, that’s a failure.
Stares follow me and Carina back outside. So does Maksim, trailing us like a stray dog.
I escort Carina upstairs and into our room, leaving her to shower and change while I head back downstairs. I’m still in a black T-shirt and mesh shorts, a fine sheen of sweat dried on my skin.
My tardiness and my appearance are both disrespectful, but I don’t currently care. Igor is mypakhan, but he’s also my father. As a parent, he’s never been especially considerate. But I expected him to ask, I guess, why I married Carina. To give any credit to my choices, which have always been correct.
Maksim is waiting outside the office. He opens the door and enters first. I follow a step behind.
Igor and Aleksandr are both standing rather than in their usual spots by the fire.
My father scowls when he sees me. “Finally,” he snaps, striding out of his office without saying anything else.
My brothers follow after him, neither exhibiting the confusion I’m trying to hide. It turns to apprehension when Irealize our destination—the door that leads to the basement. The cells down there are rusty from disuse, none inhabited since my grandfather was thepakhan. It’s unusual we capture prisoners. When we do, they’re taken to an off-site location. Our operation is much larger than it was several decades ago. We have the resources to conduct business elsewhere. I can think of a very short list of reasons why that precedent would have been changed, and none of them are pleasant.
The basement is damp and musty. At the bottom of the stone stairs, I smell blood. Urine. The source of both smells is tied to a chair, which is the only furniture down here.
Metal and ammonia mix with the other odors, prompting a host of unpleasant memories. The cells against the walls all sit empty, most of their doors hanging off broken hinges.
Mikhail, the head of Victoria’s security detail, stands next to the man in the chair.
Igor instructs him to leave, the command echoing ominously off the windowless walls. A bulb buzzes overhead.
I listen to Mikhail’s steps upstairs, followed by the slam of the door shutting.
The man is gagged, in addition to being bound, his wide eyes bouncing between the four of us. There’s a shallow cut above his left eye that I’d guess was from when they knocked him out.
